Altogether Ooky
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Just a little Crack!fic about why Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes.


All Together Ooky

**Just something I thought up the other day and couldn't get out of my head.**

Dr. John Watson marched down Baker Street, determined to get to the bottom of this. Sherlock Holmes had not been answering his phone all day. If he was ever too busy on a case, he had promised John to respond with a text to let him know he was at least alive. The man hadn't replied in six hours.

John reached the door to 221 and stepped inside, heading up the stairs. He made it to the first floor landing and called out.

"Sherlock!"

"John?"

John let out a breath of relief at Sherlock's voice. "Why aren't you answering your phone?"

John came to the doorway of the flat and froze. Standing in the flat were eight of the most bizarre people he had ever seen. If it weren't for the fact that it was Sherlock and July, John would say he was throwing a Halloween party.

"Sorry," said John. "Didn't mean to interrupt the case."

"Not a case," Sherlock brushed off as he sat in his armchair. "Family reunion."

John frowned, glancing around at the group. _Family reunion? _He shrugged it off and just went with it. "Where's Mycroft? Busy?"

"No, sorry," said Sherlock. "Not Mycroft's family reunion; _my _family reunion."

John's frown deepened—if that was possible. "What?"

Sherlock smirked. "John, did I ever tell you I was adopted?"

John blinked in surprise. "No."

Sherlock nodded. "I ran away when I was quite young; stupid thing to do, really. I was found and adopted by the Holmes family when mine couldn't be found. They finally tracked me down a couple years ago." He stood and gestured towards John's armchair. "These are my parents."

John looked at the couple. The woman was tall, pale and almost skeletal. She had long black hair, blood red lips and wore the tightest black dress John had ever seen. She sat in the seat, holding a baby in her arms.

The man sat on the arm of the chair, his arm around his wife. He looked to be of Latin descent: black, slicked-back hair; dark, expensive pin-striped suit; wide, bulging eyes; and a pencil moustache.

"Gomez Addams," the man greeted. He wrapped his arm tighter around his wife. "And this is my beautiful, glorious, eternally dark—"

"Oh, Gomez, do go on," purred the woman sensuously.

Gomez suddenly grasped onto his wife's shoulder. "Oh, cara mia."

"Mon cher," said the woman.

Gomez took his wife in his arms, planting passionate kisses on her lips. Sherlock let it continue for a moment before clearing his throat.

Gomez released his wife, settling back on the armrest. "—wife Morticia."

"Pleasure," said John.

Sherlock turned towards a young girl in her early teenage years. "This is my sister Wednesday."

John smiled awkwardly down at her. She was wearing a black dress with white stockings and black shoes. She had her hands clasped in front of her, and her skin was even paler than Sherlock's. Her black hair was pulled back in a braid. And she looked like she hadn't smiled a day in her life.

"Hello," said John in a friendly tone.

Wednesday just stared back at him.

"Okay…" muttered John.

Sherlock then pointed to a chubby little ten-year-old boy wearing a black-and-white striped t-shirt and black shorts and had his unusually long bangs spiked up with gel. "This is my brother Pugsley."

"Hi," said John.

Pugsley gave a nod but made no other reply.

Sherlock then motioned to the baby in his mother's arms. "And this is my new baby brother Pubert."

Morticia turned the child towards John, who stared in shock at the infant that could have been a dead ringer for his father—pencil moustache and all.

Sherlock turned towards the short, stout, bald man in a brown overcoat who stood in the corner. "This is my Uncle Fester."

Fester stepped forward, grasping John's hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, son." He grinned in a manic way.

John smiled nervously as he looked back into those dark, sunken eyes. "You, too."

As Fester moved back to his corner, Sherlock turned to the next family member.

"This is Grandmama," introduced Sherlock.

John smiled at the kindly elder woman, who looked like she could have stepped straight out of a Halloween advert for witches. She appeared not to have brushed her hair in a decade, and her black shawl trailed behind her on the floor. In her hands, she held Sherlock's skull from the mantelpiece.

"Hi," John told her, shaking her hand.

"And this is our butler Lurch," said Sherlock.

John turned and was confronted by a man that was at least a half-foot taller than Sherlock. He could have doubled as Frankenstein's monster.

John gazed up into his impassive face. "Hi."

Lurch didn't move a muscle; he only gave a deep, guttural groan.

"And then, um…" Sherlock spun on the spot, looking all over the ground, "uh…Anyone seen Thing?"

John frowned. "Thing?"

"Sort of a family pet," Sherlock told him, still looking around at his feet.

Discordant notes began screeching through the flat, and Sherlock spun towards his armchair, looking down at the floor behind it.

"How many times have I told you not to touch the violin?" Sherlock exploded, darting forwards and snatching his beloved Stradivarius from the floor. "No!" He darted around the chair, chasing something. "Come back here!"

John chuckled at the sight of Sherlock chasing the cat or dog around the flat. The detective came around John's armchair, stopping in front of him.

Sherlock glared at John's shoulder, holding his hand out. "Give it!"

John frowned, glancing over his shoulder to see what or who Sherlock was looking at. He froze as his view was obstructed by Sherlock's bow…being held by a disembodied hand sitting on his shoulder.

"Ah!" John exclaimed, jumping away from the hand.

The land lost its balance, and Sherlock darted out to catch it and the bow as they fell towards the floor.

Sherlock grasped the hand by its wrist, bringing it up to his face to glare at it. "Do not touch the violin, or you'll be the next body part I experiment on!"

The hand's fingers gave a shudder, and it pulled itself from Sherlock's grasp, darting over and quivering on Fester's shoulder.

"Sherlock, he's only playing," reprimanded Morticia in a gentle voice.

"He's welcome to play with anything but this," said Sherlock as he marched over to put the violin and bow into its case.

"Oh, you know that won't keep Thing out," said Fester.

"It's a start," said Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" said John.

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock without turning around.

John's eyes were fixed on the hand. "That's a hand…"

"Mm, yes, Thing," said Sherlock.

"Thing?" asked John in disbelief.

"Yes, Thing," said Sherlock.

John stared at him for a while. "It's a hand!"

"Yes, I know," said Sherlock. "Not your ordinary family."

"Indeed we are not," said Gomez proudly. "We're an Addams family!"

John could have sworn he heard organ music and fingers snapping. He quickly brushed it off as he gaze around at Gomez, Morticia, Fester, Lurch, Wednesday—

"What?" asked Sherlock as the doctor began chuckling.

"Oh, nothing," said John. "It's just that that name 'Sherlock' is making a lot more sense now."

"I haven't even gotten to my Cousin Itt," said Sherlock.

"Itt?" asked John.

"Or his son What," Sherlock continued.

"What?" asked John, confused.

"Exactly," said Sherlock.

John frowned as Sherlock turned back towards his family.

"Uncle Fester, put it back," Sherlock grumbled tiredly.

Fester turned towards everyone, a lit light bulb in his mouth. John narrowed his eyes at him, trying to figure out how he was pulling that off.

"What?" Fester mumbled around the bulb. "It's a party trick!"

"One you do every time you visit," said Sherlock. "Just put it back."

Fester took the bulb from his mouth, and it blinked off. He screwed it back into the lamp in the corner and replaced the lamp shade.

"Sherlock says you're a doctor," said Wednesday morosely.

John looked down at her and nodded. "Yeah."

"Do you cut up dead bodies?" asked Wednesday.

John frowned at her morbid curiosity. "Um, no. I'm not a coroner."

"Has anyone ever died on your table?" asked Wednesday.

"No, I'm not a surgeon," John told her. "I'm a GP."

"Boring," muttered Wednesday.

John began edging away from the terrifying child. "Sherlock…"

"Well, we really must be going," said Morticia. "Mama needs to catch her broomstick." She stood with the baby Pubert in her arms.

John frowned. "Broom—"

"Come, children," said Morticia. She smiled at Sherlock. "It was a pleasure seeing you again, my son."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock brushed off, waving them out.

He suddenly stamped his foot down forcefully, and John glanced down to see Thing scrambling about under it. Sherlock lifted his foot, and Thing scrambled back away from the violin case.

"I'll give Mycroft your worst," Sherlock continued.

"Good man!" said Gomez, clapping his eldest son on the back.

"Come, darling," said Morticia. "We'll be late for the Tower of London. You knew the children were dying to see it."

"You think they'll have the torture room open?" asked Pugsley as he left with Wednesday and Fester.

"One can only hope!" Fester told him.

John watched as they all slowly filtered their way out of the flat. John sighed as he went to make tea, listening to Sherlock humming a tune in the next room and snapping his fingers to the beat. John paused, listening to the song.

"_Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm."_

_Snap-snap._

"_Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm."_

_Snap-snap._

"_Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm. Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm. Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm."_

_Snap-snap._

"What are you humming?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh, some song. It's been stuck in my head all day. It's probably nothing."

John came back into the living room. "So…your family…"

"Yes…" muttered Sherlock, going to sit down in his armchair. "They're eccentric, but…what can you do?"

John glanced at him, thinking about the family he had just met and their weird behavior and personalities. He began chuckling as he realized where he had seen a personality like that before.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"You," said John. "You suddenly make a lot more sense, too. No wonder you are the way you are."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's an Addams thing."


End file.
